


thesis on the idea of vulnerability

by bannerless (seraf)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hope's Peak Academy (Dangan Ronpa), Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Friends With Benefits, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rope Bondage, Strap-Ons, Trans Amami Rantaro, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Ultimate Talent Development Plan (Dangan Ronpa), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/bannerless
Summary: he lifts kiyo’s hips, shifting them up and forwards, so that with each thrust, kiyo grinds down into the sheets beneath them, resting his forehead right where the back of kiyo’s ribs joined with his spine. kiyo’s still muffling his face into the sheets, but this close to his chest, rantaro can hear each soft noise he makes.( it makes kiyo so undeniably /human/. rantaro wonders, idly, if they would sound like this every day if they didn’t wear his mask. if he would be able to hear their breathing then, or the tuneless humming he did under his breath when he was lost in concentration, pursing their lips. things you might not notice from people every day, but things he just found so notable in kiyo, for their mundanity. )





	thesis on the idea of vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> they/them and he/him both used kind of intermittently for kiyo, who is agender and doesn't care

‘ none of these are . . . you’re sure they’re healed enough for this, kiyo? ‘ rantaro asks, gently running his hand over the slope of kiyo’s forearm, inside and out. he can’t tell if these were self inflicted or caused by someone else or genuinely accidental. he’s not shuichi - he’s never had a very good eye for these kinds of things. but he does know that they’re rough scabs, rather than just scar tissue.

 

‘ i believe so, ‘ kiyo says, flexing their fingers experimentally. ‘ i have full range of motion with my hands and arms without the skin cracking, and it’s not painful. ‘

 

‘ all the same, ‘ rantaro says slowly, ‘ do you think we could go with - padded cuffs, rather than the ropes? i know you don’t think they have the same appeal or aesthetic, but if just the restraint is enough for you rather than the whole setup? ‘

 

‘ i would prefer more traditional kinbaku, ‘ kiyo says, running their slim fingers over the soft curves of red rope. ‘ may i ask you . . . to just trust me to know my own limits, rantaro? ‘

 

rantaro hesitates for a long moment, before leaning forwards, pressing a soft kiss to the top of kiyo’s shoulder, where the sharp edge of their collarbone traces along to their shoulder, using his fingertips to tuck a strand of their long hair behind one ear. he _wants_ to trust kiyo. isn’t that what this is all about? a give and take of trust?

 

‘ alright, ‘ rantaro concedes, voice soft, mouth still hovering just above kiyo’s skin. ‘ i’ll go with your judgement on this. but if any of the scabs tear or start bleeding, i’m undoing the ropes, alright? ‘

 

something knits in kiyo’s brow, looking frustrated for a moment, but they nod. rantaro knows the stories of some of the things they’ve been through, but that doesn’t mean _he’s_ willing to do them. and - secretly, he hopes that’s part of why kiyo keeps this thing between them going. the lines rantaro won’t cross.

 

‘ how do you want me, then? ‘ kiyo asks, their fingers tracing down the outer side of rantaro’s thigh, causing a brief spasm in his muscles - kiyo’s hands are so often so _cold,_ like they stepped out of a mausoleum, carved out of the same marble as the tomb. ( rantaro wonders if that’s too morbid a thought to have. he somehow thinks kiyo would appreciate it. )

 

‘ i want you to warm up a bit, ‘ he grumbles, pretending to scowl, taking one of kiyo’s hands between two of his own and kissing his icy fingertips. ‘ this is why you don’t get to top. i don’t want those anywhere inside me. ‘ it’s said good-naturedly, and kiyo’s lips curve into a lopsided little smirk.

 

‘ of course, ‘ they say, innocently, and rantaro shrieks a little bit in surprise as kiyo’s hand slips between his thighs, middle finger tracing down his slit.

 

‘ what do you _do,_ sleep in a meat freezer? ‘ he yelps, tugging kiyo’s hand away from his crotch with the closest thing to a stern glare he can muster when kiyo’s fingertips are slick with him. the anthropologist looks _completely_ unrepentant, lips pursed a little bit in amusement, and rantaro shakes his head. ‘ you’re terrible, you know that? ‘

 

‘ so i’ve been told, ‘ kiyo muses. ‘ but i must have a certain charm to me, yes? otherwise you wouldn’t be in my room right now. ‘

 

‘ you raise a good point, ‘ rantaro says, pretending to sound grudging. ‘ but _you_ invited me, didn’t you? ‘

 

‘ yes, ‘ kiyo hums. they press the bundle of rope into rantaro’s hands, leaning forwards to kiss him, their noses brushing for a moment before. before kiyo can pull back, rantaro’s tangling a hand in his hair, tugging him back in towards him, doing his best to kiss him wild, nipping his lower lip between his canines.

 

‘ where do you want me? ‘ kiyo murmurs again, and rantaro turns him so his back is against his chest, scraping his teeth against the sharp jut of their vertebrae above their shoulderblades, right under their hairline, shifting their hair over their shoulders so he can kiss over his back, trace his hands and his lips over kiyo’s skin, muscles taut and skin hugging his bones.

 

‘ bend over, ‘ rantaro says, nudging them forwards a little bit. ‘ on the bed. hands behind your back. ‘ this has become more and more routine to him, and there’s none of the initial unsteadiness there had been in his voice the first few times he had told kiyo what to do. his palm rests on kiyo’s spine, pushing kiyo down even as they begin to lean over the bed themselves, shifting their face to rest on its side so their breathing isn’t restricted, patiently crossing their wrists behind their back.

 

‘ i’m not sure whether it’s better or worse that miu made this one to match my hair, ‘ rantaro muses, shaking his head as he begins to put the clear electrodes into place, tightening the straps around his hips. ‘ though i guess i _did_ say i didn’t like the neon pink, huh? ‘

 

‘ you did indeed, ‘ kiyo says, lips twitching in a smile. ‘ this is on your own head, yes? ‘

 

‘ mm, ‘ rantaro says, focused more on the plane of kiyo’s body underneath him, one hand rubbing small circles into the hollows over his hipbones. they had practiced these ties a few times - rantaro had been subject to them, and had asked for the opportunity to put kiyo into the tie himself.

 

though, he thought, carefully tying the fourth loop over one of his arms, he might modify it just a little bit to avoid the new marks - he intersperses the ties that keep kiyo’s arms tied together, making the gaps between them wider, the rewound loops sparser. he nips at the back of where kiyo’s neck meets his shoulder, clamping his mouth down for a moment. it’s not as though anyone will see any marks he leaves on kiyo, given how much skin he tends to keep uncovered, but knowing the fact that they’re _there_ is still an alluring thought.

 

‘ you’re already - prepared, right? ‘ rantaro asks, with his nose still brushing the crook of kiyo’s neck, the anthropologist nodding. rantaro grins gently. ‘ sometimes, ‘ he says, in a voice that feigns hurt, ‘ it feels almost like you don’t trust me to do it myself, huh? ‘

 

‘ perhaps i don’t, ‘ kiyo says, his tone clearly teasing.

 

rantaro gasps, feigning scandalization. ‘ you’re so rude! what if i just leave you here, to fend for yourself, huh? ‘

 

‘ _kehehe._ you’re certainly free to, ‘ kiyo says, clearly unapologetic, ‘ but you would be leaving yourself in a . . . not dissimilar position, yes? ‘

 

the _downside_ to the prosthetic miu had invented was that it was now much harder to deny it if he was aroused, the sensors in the electrodes picking it up from his skin and sending his cock brushing his abdomen at the smug curl of kiyo’s voice, the red rope that made its way around his body, the expanse of bare skin ( and, he must admit, the simple fact that almost no one else he knows will get to see this much of kiyo, given that he covers all but his eyes ), the coloring marks along kiyo’s throat. 

 

‘ smug bastard, ‘ rantaro mutters, shaking his head ( albeit fondly ). ‘ you’re lucky you’re pretty, you know that? ‘

 

‘ i like to think it’s one of my few redeeming qualities. ‘ 

 

‘ you have a lot of redeeming qualities, ‘ rantaro says, nipping gently at his earlobe.

 

‘ indeed. like the fact that i put up with you. ‘

 

rantaro gasps dramatically, even as his hand traces up and down the inside of kiyo’s thigh. ‘ come on, now you’re just being mean. ‘

 

‘ well, perhaps if you moved faster, i wouldn’t have the opportunity to? ‘ kiyo quips back, and rantaro can see the gleam of their teeth from where his face rests on its side on the sheets. he traces his hand up around over their thigh, fingertips light and teasing as he just barely strokes over kiyo’s length, careful to trace gently enough that there’s almost barely any friction.

 

almost.

 

it’s clearly enough to be infuriating, as after a few seconds of patiently moving his hand, rantaro gets what he wants - a slip in their composure, kiyo’s jaw tightening as their hips jolt forwards, almost involuntary. a reflex.

 

he grins, wide and easy, for it, making sure kiyo can see his expression as he withdraws his hand, reaching for the small bottle on the drawer, practiced enough by now in making sure he was slick enough to enter kiyo. ( he’d say thank g-d for miu for this, as he bites back a small noise with the motion of his hand, but she was already self-satisfied enough about it. )

 

kiyo’s fingers twitch, curling slightly in anticipation, their hair a raven mess over the sheets.

 

rantaro thinks they’re beautiful.

 

he wonders if he should say it. kiyo has called him that, many times, but it’s _different_ when it comes from kiyo, who calls everything beautiful, including things rantaro thinks objectively _aren’t,_ like their own suicidal ideation, like kokichi’s compulsive lying, like kaito’s sudden peaks of aggressiveness. like their sister, the few times they speak about her with something between reverence and fear, as though she were a vengeful god.

 

but maybe - they need to hear it.

 

‘ you’re beautiful, you know that? ‘ he states, outright and simple, as he positions himself to take them, chin resting on their back for a moment, over one of the criss-crossing knots that embrace kiyo. he kisses the spot, there, and hopes, silently, that kiyo knows he _means_ it, and in a more personal way than the overarching beauty of humanity. ‘ you really are. i’m glad i get to see you like this. ‘

 

‘ the art inherent to vulnerability, ‘ kiyo murmurs, eyelashes fluttering against the sharp edge of their cheekbone. ‘ _the vulnerability of precious things is beautiful because vulnerability is a mark of existence._ that doesn’t cover the array of human instinct, however, when it comes to - _ah!_ ‘

 

rantaro enjoyed kiyo’s lectures. he did; kiyo loved to talk about his interests, and it was one of the few times he seemed genuinely happy, when he was discussing the intricacies of human nature. but . . . seeing him lose his composure or taking him off-guard is so much rarer. which was, he reasoned, a good enough reason to finally enter kiyo, fluid and deep, while he was lost following the tracks of his train of thought.

 

and it _had_ been worth it, to hear the anthropologist cry out, surprised, and to feel them, pinned between him and the bed, jerk, back arching and their fingers grasping at nothing, curling into fists between their back and his ribs. to hear how their breathing became just a little bit more shallow.

 

‘ no, ‘ he says, fingers tracing their hipbones as he slowly pushes the rest of the way in, hilting himself with a little shudder, ‘ i don’t think it’s the vulnerability. i think it’s _you._ ‘

 

for once, kiyo seems at a loss for words.

 

rantaro stills for a moment, his nails briefly digging into their thighs as he struggles not to move, gives them a moment to respond, if they want. but they’ve turned their face more into the sheets, made their expression unreadable. he huffs out a sigh and rocks into them once before drawing his hips back, slowly pushing back in, fingers kneading the tops of kiyo’s thighs, pulling a harsh breath out of them.

 

‘ you as well, ‘ kiyo murmurs, even as their nails scrape against rantaro’s chest with their clenching and unclenching hands. ‘ you are . . . beautiful, rantaro. ‘

 

rantaro smiles, light and teasing, and refuses to admit to himself the swell of relief that blossomed in his throat, knowing now that he hadn’t crossed some sort of line. he reaches up, moves some of kiyo’s hair off of his face, even as he thrusts into him again. ‘ you think _everything_ is beautiful, kiyo. ‘

 

‘ perhaps, ‘ the anthropologist allows, tipping his own hips back to meet rantaro’s movements, rolling with him, ‘ but that doesn’t - _ah_ \- that doesn’t cheapen the sentiment, does it? if you say _i love you_ to a friend, to a romantic partner, to a sister - it doesn’t mean you love any one of them less because you’ve said it to more people. ‘

 

sometimes, rantaro wonders if kiyo knows how hard he makes it.

 

he forces the thought down.

 

‘ maybe i’m just - ‘ and he thrusts into kiyo, fingers digging into the hollows created by his hipbones, ‘ - just a little disappointed. you’re so smart, i’d expect you to have a wider vocabulary. or that you’d start waxing poetic or something like that. ‘

 

there’s a gleam of mirth visible in kiyo’s expression as he shifts his head to look at rantaro. ‘ last time i did something akin to that, didn’t you say i was ruining the mood? ‘

 

‘ talking about how grasshoppers were seen as a symbol of fertility _is_ ruining the mood. unless you were interested in seducing gonta, maybe. ‘ already seeing the beginnings of a witty response forming on kiyo’s mouth, he shakes his head. ‘ _don’t_. whatever you were about to say, don’t. ‘

 

for a second, he could swear he sees kiyo almost pout at that, before his expression turns to something more calculating, considering. ‘ grasshoppers aside, is this a challenge, rantaro? ‘

 

‘ to be more creative with your word choice? yeah, actually. ‘ he doesn’t intend to make it easy for kiyo to focus, either, settling his head against kiyo’s shoulders and just beginning to work his hips in earnest, biting his lip to hold back his own sounds as he thrusts into them, nails scraping down kiyo’s sides before snagging on the rope, holding onto it as he fucks them.

 

‘ i think the - the resolve you have, to not give up on your goal regardless of how you’re seen for it, is - is something i’ve always envied, about you. you’re brave, in - a way you don’t . . . often let others see. and - if i’m honest, i like being able to spend . . . this time with you more than i tend to express. i - ‘ and then there’s a surprised noise, and kiyo’s words are cut off by them biting down on the sheets, rantaro grinning a little triumphantly, one hand tangled in their hair, rolling his hips to meet that spot inside of them again.

 

it takes kiyo a few moments, shuddering, to unclench his jaw. ‘ how do you - expect me to try and come up with words like this? ‘

 

‘ like this? ‘ rantaro asks innocently, two fingers threading underneath one of the central knots and tugging it up hard, tightening the bonds around kiyo’s body, his other hand slowly shifting inwards from his hipbone.

 

kiyo’s hands are white knuckled, where they clench into fists, tied behind his back, and before they get the chance to speak again, rantaro twists one of his hands in the rope for a point of leverage, now, using it to pull kiyo down harder on himself, hips snapping erratically.

 

g-d, all he wants is to be able to see kiyo fall apart, just a little bit.

 

he lifts kiyo’s hips, shifting them up and forwards, so that with each thrust, kiyo grinds down into the sheets beneath them, resting his forehead right where the back of kiyo’s ribs joined with his spine. kiyo’s still muffling his face into the sheets, but this close to his chest, rantaro can hear each soft noise he makes.

 

( it makes kiyo so undeniably _human._ rantaro wonders, idly, if they would sound like this every day if they didn’t wear his mask. if he would be able to hear their breathing then, or the tuneless humming he did under his breath when he was lost in concentration, pursing their lips. things you might not notice from people every day, but things he just found so notable in kiyo, for their mundanity. )

 

he slides one of his hands under kiyo’s chest. finds the knot right over his heart and holds it, the ropes branching off of it, and _twists_ hard with a yank, pulling their spine sloping, a gentle curve of a thing that brushes kiyo’s sharp vertebrae against his sternum, and the anthropologist lets out a soft strangled noise.

 

‘ come on, kiyo, stop being so _stubborn,_ ‘ he whispers, more to himself than anything else, only half-aware he was speaking out loud, nails digging into his hip with a low moan he doesn’t bother to try and hide as he slides back into kiyo, sheathing himself again.

 

slowly, haltingly, with a shudder as though it’s agonizing for him, kiyo shifts his face, turning it back on its side rather than muffling it in the sheets. there’s a damp patch under their head where he was biting down, and his wan cheeks, for once, are flushed bright, eyes slits of gold under heavy lids.

 

‘ g-d, kiyo, you’re a fucking angel, ‘ rantaro murmurs through his teeth, barely coherent even to himself.

 

 _that_ at least causes kiyo to grin, even as rantaro rolls his hips to grind theirs almost mercilessly against the sheets. ‘ oh? i - _ah,_ i didn’t take you as a blasphemer, rantaro. ‘ they look back at him, at where their bodies meet, with mirth rising in their eyes. ‘ do you suppose this would be considered desecration, then? ‘

 

rantaro snorts, teeth nipping the back of kiyo’s shoulder. ‘ i take that back. you’re impossible, is what you are. ‘

 

kiyo’s grin is all teeth, lazy and sharp at the edges, until rantaro shifts his head up and bites at the side of their neck, and then he shudders, hands straining at the cords around his arms futilely. ‘ - rantaro, i - ’ there’s a desperation in his voice, and rantaro takes it as a victory.

 

there’s something so gratifying about shattering kiyo’s eloquence.

 

‘ come on, kiyo, ‘ he murmurs again, in response to his name, and his hand drifts down his stomach to wrap around them, thumb sliding over the head, slick with precome. ‘ what is it you always say about surrendering? ‘ he’s fighting to keep his own breath steady, heat building in his stomach, the tendons in his thighs jumping as he forces himself to still. kiyo tries to tip their hips back towards rantaro’s, but rantaro pins them down with one firm hand.

 

‘ _rantaro_ , ‘ kiyo says again, after twisting against the ropes for a few seconds and finding it futile ( as should be expected, really - kiyo had been the one to teach him, after all ) but it’s clearly a plea, this time, breath coming inharsh and shallow gasps. rantaro just twists his hand once, slowly, over their shaft again, keeps his hips still. waits. ‘ rantaro . . . ‘ it’s close to resigned now, the tension slumping out of kiyo’s shoulders. against his stomach, rantaro can feel their hands shaking.

 

almost. _almost._

 

the two of them remain like that for three, four beats of rantaro’s accelerated pulse, both of them wound tight as a high wire, hanging in stasis - there’s nothing but them, nothing but the feeling of them under him, his hips flush with theirs.

 

and then something breaks, finally, and kiyo, simply and quietly, just says ‘ please. ‘

 

there’s no plea to his voice, no begging, and no exhaustion, either. just that, just that simply.

 

it’s enough for rantaro.

 

shuddering as he begins to move, his teeth clamp down near the base of kiyo’s neck ( he thinks some of his hair might’ve wound up in his mouth, messy and long and wildly spilled out over the bed as it is, but he doesn’t care beyond a passing thought ) and his hands and his hips work in earnest, focused on pushing kiyo over, because _g-d_ , rantaro just wants to take him apart.

 

( because whatever kiyo says about ropes and vulnerability and beauty, rantaro can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen kiyo truly be vulnerable, be open, and more of them than he’d like were kiyo panicking, breaking down to ugly shaking and a mantra of words repeated so many times they became meaningless, and rantaro just wants to see him laid bare without having to rip him apart to do so )

 

rantaro stops biting down, kisses carefully at his throat instead, and yanks on the ropes, and kiyo cries out, brief and quickly suppressed, and kiyo _writhes_ under him, shuddering, and rantaro can’t help but curse quietly against his skin as kiyo clenches around him, rocking their hips into rantaro’s hand with something almost like desperation, spilling over and making a mess of the sheets underneath their hips.

 

there’s a low keen coming from kiyo as he comes that rantaro can _feel,_ with his mouth on kiyo’s throat, thrumming under his lips, and that finally pushes him over, thrusting deep and erratic into the anthropologist as the feeling sweeps over him, vision rushing with white, and his arms give out under him, collapsing to lie, without ceremony, on kiyo’s back, heaving for breath.

 

after a moment to regain himself, he’s slowly pulling out of him and discarding the prosthetic, wiping it off on the sheets and unpeeling the electrodes carefully before letting it drop to the floor. kiyo is still bent over the bed, tied in such a way that it would be hard for him to stand or to move on the bed on his own.

 

rantaro takes one second to just appreciate what he looks like, bound, his breathing still settling, still shaking from his high, before beginning to deftly untie all the knots, taking special care with the ones over his arms, tracing gentle fingers up over their forearms, working the tension out of them in a way gentle enough that it didn’t risk tearing the skin.

 

finished, he lets the ropes drop as well, and gently pulls kiyo to sit upright, shifting him away from the wet spot on the sheets and tugging them tight to his chest before they can protest, just holding them. kiyo’s skin is still cold, his edges still sharp. but rantaro can slowly feel them allow themselves to lean on him, can feel it when the tension begins to release under the hands he wraps around their back to begin working the knots out from around their shoulders.

 

‘ good? ‘ rantaro asks, quiet and soft, as though kiyo were a spooked animal he was trying not to startle.

 

‘ with you? it always is, ‘ kiyo returns, after catching his breath, nipping gently at rantaro’s shoulder in return for the dark collar of bruises rantaro had left around his throat. rantaro laughs at that, beginning to comb kiyo’s hair back into place with his fingers.

 

‘ i guess it didn’t take too long for you to get your eloquence back, huh? ‘

 

‘ did you expect it to? ‘

 

‘ i might have wanted it to, ‘ rantaro admits, voice soft and eyes glancing away. ‘ it always feels like something special, getting to see you beyond even your words. ‘

 

kiyo is silent for a moment, which is enough for rantaro to begin checking over his arms again, just double-checking, protective instinct kicking in. their fingers twitch under his careful inspection. ‘ i did tell you you could trust my judgement in this, yes? ‘

 

‘ and i did, ‘ says rantaro easily. ‘ but - sometimes, kiyo, i think you need to have someone around you can trust to worry that you _are_ going to be okay. ‘ he laughs a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. ‘ i don’t know. maybe i just worry too much, you know? ‘

 

‘ well, ‘ kiyo murmurs, seemingly lost in thought, ‘ i won’t refute that. ‘

 

he’s _studying_ rantaro now, eyes slowly focusing to a laser point, head tipped a degree to the side, before at last, he rests one hand on rantaro’s shoulder, running it down his arm with ghost-light touch. ‘ i wish i _didn’t_ believe everything was beautiful, ‘ he murmurs, as if to himself, and rantaro blinks at him.

 

‘ what do you mean, kiyo? ‘

 

kiyo’s eyes are deep and unreadable when he looks back at him. ‘ because then you would believe me when i told you that you were. ‘

 

rantaro just _looks_ at them, stunned, his fingers freezing mid-motion as his brain worked to come up with a response to that. ‘ i - kiyo, that’s - ‘ he says, voice haltering, until he notices a hint of a grin teasing at the corner of kiyo’s lips, twitching upwards and ruining his serious countenance. 

 

‘ so. does that satisfy your challenge? ‘ kiyo asks, grin openly dancing on his face now, sly and thin.

 

ah. the challenge. so that’s why.

 

rantaro considers it, and refuses to think about the feeling it wells up in him, and pulls a face of mock deep thought. ‘ hm . . . points for being smooth, but the challenge _was_ for while we were still going, you know. you’re _always_ good with your words, otherwise. ‘

 

‘ make up your mind, rantaro, ‘ kiyo says, amused, ‘ do you like the way i speak, or not? ‘

 

‘ i like _you,_ ‘ rantaro responds with an easy shrug, and tries not to think about how much that means.

**Author's Note:**

> is it mutual pining? is it unrequited? we don't know these idiots dont communicate
> 
> also ft: the return of miu's patented prosthetic/strap-on: the prosthedick™


End file.
